


Ten Past Midnight

by orphan_account



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Mystery Character(s), Slow Dancing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael lets someone else lead for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Past Midnight

There’s nothing particularly spectacular about this place; it’s just one of the many bars along the waterfront of the Inner Harbor that has served it’s Fell’s Point patrons for longer than Michael has been alive. It’s just another long row of bar stools pulled up to an aged oak counter, a few leather seated booths in the back where regulars gather and drink their poison of choice, a jukebox that steals people’s quarters more often than not, and a large, well worn square of hardwood that serves as a dance floor. There’s only one thing that makes this place significant to Michael and that is the man that walks through the door every Tuesday night at ten past midnight.

Michael doesn’t know the man’s name and he’s never bothered to introduce himself. What Michael does know is that the man is one of the few people in the world Michael has to tip his head upward to make eye contact with. The man has salt and pepper hair and his skin is so pale he almost looks sickly. That, combined with his quicksilver grey eyes, thin lips, and shark-like smile, the man appears to be quite formidable.

“Hello again, Michael,” the man says, reaches out and places his large hand on Michael’s shoulder. Michael can feel the man’s strength through his grip, knows that it would only take the smallest shift of that hand to pull Michael’s shoulder out of it’s socket.

“Hey,” Michael says back, feels his voice crack. He’s trembling terribly and no matter how hard he tries to stay still he can’t.

“Let’s dance, you and I.” The man says as he turns Michael towards the dance floor, guides him out into the center of the floor with a subtle shift of his hand.

“Okay,” Michael nods and then they dance. It’s not a complicated performance. There’s no fancy footwork happening here. No, this is something for the two of them- but more for Michael than anything else. He rests his head against the man’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and lets himself be led around in winding circles. Every inhaled breath fills Michael’s sinuses with the man’s scent: old books, citrus, and the smoky aroma produced by a wood burning stove on a cold winter night. The man keeps Michael held close, turns his head and whispers into the swimmer’s ear as he does every time the dance together. He promises things that no ordinary man could ever fulfill but from what little Michael knows about this man he’s inclined to believe him.

“I would cherish you, Michael,” the man says possessively. “I’d take you home and keep you safe in my bed. I would honor you with every touch and every kiss. I would shelter you from the perils of this world. I would show my devotion in the slow hours of our lovemaking.”

“Hours?” Michael asks.

“Yes, dear Michael.” the man smiles. “Hours and hours. Over and over again until your body becomes so sensitive that you can’t stand to be touched.”

Michael feels his knees grow weak. Deep in his gut he can feel that foul beast named Desire rumbling to life like a bear after a winter hibernation, hungry in a way that only gluttony can satisfy. Michael speaks shakily, says, “How do I know you’re telling the truth? I don’t even know your name.”

“You don’t need to know my name, dear Michael,” the man replies. “When my promises are enough for you, when you can trust me without knowing my name.... only then can we truly love each other.”

“I can’t do that,” Michael practically sobs. “You know I can’t.”

“That is where you are wrong,” the man intones wisely. “You can’t do it now, but someday you will. Until then, there’s always next Tuesday.” The man then presses a chaste kiss to Michael’s lips and walks away, leaving Michael standing in the center of the dance floor alone.

“Next Tuesday,” Michael says to himself. “Maybe then.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song I imagine Michael and his mystery man to be dancing to is Let It Be Me by Ray LaMontagne.


End file.
